User blog:Finchgeam/Vulture: A Day in the Life of Zoyka Ilyshna
Это не свобода. Это страх. -Lera Remizov These are the words that I tend to live by. Roughly translated, it means "It's not freedom. It's fear" and often I feel like that is exactly the driving force behind life, fear. Perhaps not every life but certainly my own. My name is Zoyka Ilynishna and I am afraid. It was around this time of the long and detailed suicide note that she had planned that Zoyka stood up from her desk and got herself a glass of water. Her apartment was a terrible one, dark and dirty on the bad side of town. It had the unprecedented smell of a home that hadn't been clean in years. Light, due to her failure to pay the electric bill in the last few months was none to be found. Zoyka's own aroma was that of a pile of garbage swimming in sewage water. Life was unpleasant, certainly there was an omission in her life. Such would be clear to everyone meeting Zoyka for the first time. Her natural buoyancy in bad times was none existant. It's not hard to conject that Zoyka was alone. It was not on account of Zoyka not being alluring. It was a merger of both her horrid stench and abhorrent personality. Voluptousness is meaningless when not backed up by charisma. The water in her apartment tasted about as well as you can imagine. Feeling the rusty and tepid water running down her larynx was a sensation she had gotten used to. It didn't even hydrate her that much, she still had started to love the taste of it. Comfortable. Familiar. Routine. The only thing guiding her through her apartment this late at night was the light shimmering from the neon sign of the motel next door. As she put down the glass and looked at her note that lay on the desk, she felt it again. It was the ominous fear that had inflicted her life from early age, spiraling it down to the point where her dinner consists of rusty tepid water from the faucet. Her biggest meal of the day is a buttered toast sandwiched between two slices of bread. The ingredients for which she steals on a recurring basis from her neighbor, Mrs.Kafk, who due to a web of deceits is under the assumption that they are related. Hence why she gives her bread. It was the fear that drove her frantic, consistently causing her delusions like a sledgehammer on a regular basis. She sat down again, planning to at least write 5 more pages before she'd languish on top of a pile of her soiled clothes. I'm afraid that, I won't amount to anything. People have fed me my entire life putrid lies that anything is possible if you set your mind to it, that I could be whatever I wanted. Newsflash, that's not how life works anymore. Maybe it did 40 years ago but in 2014 your life is worthless. The fruit of your labor is sterile and you might as well give up. She dropped the pen. twisted back and exhaled. A vulture could be accounted for in her apartment next to her. This bird was often there to the pint where it might as well be domesticated. The vulture looked at her with such intent. It never moved, it simply stared at her. She exhaled again. She wondered why she was even bothering with a suicide note. Who would read it? She went to her fridge and covered herself in the rotten meat she was saving for this occasion. She lay down on her pile of clothes, relaxed and closed her eyes. Waiting for her fowl friend to ravage her. Category:Blog posts